Panic Rising
by HappierThanMost
Summary: Darry's fears and worries over Soda have taken control tonight and Pony must talk him out of his panic.


_This one shot is a deeper look into Darry's panic attack that I've had Ponyboy briefly mention before. This takes place during the difficult time Darry and Pony were left to deal with Soda's absence due to war_ _._

 **PANIC RISING**

The sound of a train cuts through the silence of snow falling, a reminder tonight that there's life out there somewhere. I can't feel much of anything but my entire self plummeting into a pit of terror, as I sit alone in my dark bedroom and watch the graceful fall of flakes. My chest is starting to tighten, my heart racing, its rhythm too rapid and out of sync with the pulse pounding my ears. I try and focus on deep, measured breaths, and try and ignore the doubts that rear their hungry heads, ready to devour my mind if I let them. And I'm pretty close to letting them.

I hardly spoke to Ponyboy tonight. Sometimes our strengths are our differences. We've learned to work well with each other while we wait for Soda's return from the war. Tonight he could tell I was having a bad day. And I was grateful he gave me space instead of pushing for answers.

The snow that started falling at dusk may have been the catalyst. A cruel reminder that Soda's gone. On the other side of the world, not here to annoy us with constant updates on the weather, always wanting a blizzard that never comes. He'd be the one tuned to the radio for every school closing update, willing with all his might for ours to be on that list, running through the house pumping his fists and yelling out in victory if ever it was. Tonight I can hear his joyous echoes fading across the lines of time, now just a ghostlike wind. Soda isn't here.

I know in my bones something's wrong. I've felt it the past few days. It goes beyond the fact it's been too long since Soda's last letter. There's something else that tugs at my fears. I've never been one for gut feelings, unlucky patterns or bad signs. It was Mom and Soda who lived among such mystic superstitions. But lately I find myself dipping my feet into those tricky waters, and as I watch the snow that Soda loved so much, tonight an eerie blanket over Tulsa, I'm shook.

" _And the girl's jacket was all that was left of her." I finish my ghost story under our blanket, the flashlight pressed to my chin, its glow distorting my facial features with strange shadows._

 _The light bounces off a pair of wide, brown eyes looking at me, and a shivering whisper fills the silence. "Darry, are there really monsters?"_

 _I pause and stare at Soda, curled up on his side facing me, his hand clasped on my arm, and I'm enjoying making him wait for my answer, watching his eyes grow larger as his fright takes over from behind them. "Yes," I tell him with a sneer of delight. "Monsters are real." And I click off my flashlight for effect. And then give my best demon laugh._

 _Soda's out of the bed in a second begging me to stop. "Quit it Darry or I'll tell Mom."_

" _Quit it Darry or I'll tell Mom," I mock back to him then roll over. "Why I have to sleep with a seven year old is beyond me." He slowly gets brave enough to climb back in our bed._

 _The last thing I hear before falling asleep is Soda asking nervously, "Did you hear that Darry?" when a tree branch scrapes our window. And I feel his small hand weave its way into mine, his fingers wrapping my own._

He can't do this. He won't make it. He can't survive. I can't even picture a happy homecoming anymore. All I'm able to picture is another vicious knock on our door that calls out more devastating news. I can't see Soda coming home in anything but a box. And I can't forget winter was the harsh landscape of another hell I walked not so long ago.

Why couldn't I have been nicer when we were young? I can see his scared eyes every time mine close, and I torture myself with them. Thinking of how afraid he must be at this very moment. Wondering what he's up against. What monster is he trying to slay right now? Or rather, what monster's trying to end him? I can almost hear him begging me to make them stop. I was just trying to tease my little brother. But I guess I'd really ended up telling him the truth in that bed, safely tucked under those cozy quilts.

I can't save him. And I know all of him far too well. He's fearful and sensitive, and he can't possibly win. My chest starts hurting and it's hard to breathe. Pony's sporadic coughing down the hall is the only thing that anchors me to the edge of the pit. Right before I feel myself nosediving into the painful abyss, I hear Ponyboy's wheezy chest cold and I'm tethered again to surface.

I focus on the patterned shadows reflecting on my wall, and I feel a sickening cold sweat prickling around my hairline. I try to gently close my eyes but only end up squeezing them tight. Nothing I do is gentle. Nothing around me is soft or kind. Even a peaceful snowflake rips me apart its entire way to earth.

Dizzy, I head for the bathroom, trailing my fingers along the hallway walls for balance. "You ok Dar?" Pony asks from the couch, licking a spoon of peanut butter in the bluish glow of the tv.

His voice seems far away, while mine seems loud when I assure him I'm fine, but I know I must look a bit off since he's studying me, his brows furrowed in worry. I shut the door to all of it and lean against the sink, watching the water flood the basin, feeling my chest heaving, the room spinning, and I put my hand over my heart, hoping somehow this will calm the chaos swirling inside.

I can't stop picturing Soda getting shot. I splash my face, the cold water a shock to my system, but nothing can stop the invasive brutal thoughts of Soda coming home to us as a body. A draped flag over his casket. And I'm losing this inner battle between hope and despair. My dark side is winning. The side that's convincing me Soda simply can't do this. There's no way he's going to escape. And I feel my breath coming in short and shallow, and I'm gasping as I spiral into sheer panic.

The air sounds like it's buzzing and I try to make sense of the bathroom as my brain repeats the words _h_ _e's gone_ over and over. I won't be able to handle this. I feel the floor rushing to me and realize I'm the one moving towards it. My arms instinctively block my fall, and I pull myself into the corner of the bathroom, slump against the tub and work on controlling my breathing. My chest muscles are tight and pained, and now I know what Mr. Thompson must've felt before he died of a heart attack.

I can get through most anything. And have. But I can't bury my little brother.

* * *

I knew as soon as I came home from school he wasn't acting right. And I left him alone. I've been there. I recognize that dark terrain. Darry and I take turns on having bad days. Luckily we rarely experience them at the same time. I figured a good night sleep would be the answer, but I see him coming down the hall and realize this is something else entirely. This isn't just a bad day.

My spoon stands upright in the peanut butter jar and I take the last swig from my coke bottle, wipe my mouth in the crook of my arm and start moving carefully to the bathroom. I pause every few steps to try and listen. The blasting faucet drowns out most things, until I hear the unmistakable sound of a body falling, and I'm now running to the door, throwing it open before I even knock.

He's leaned against the bathtub, pale as a ghost, breathing heavy. I'm about to call for help but I'm stopped by Darry looking at me, waving me not to, as if he read my mind. "No, I'm okay," he says between breaths. "It's Soda."

These two words strip me, my breath is strangled and my mouth is too dry to even move my tongue when I ask him, "What happened to Soda, Darry?"

It's only a few seconds of sheer terror until he goes on, "I just feel like something bad's happened to him," and though he's pained, a relief floods through when I realize he hasn't really heard any bad news. I'm left with legs that feel like jelly and I hold on to the towel rack for support. Once I get my bearings, I get on my knees next to Darry, and though it's an unnatural feeling to be the one of us in charge, I try and lock his eyes.

"Nothing bad has happened Darry," I try to convince him, while he nods his head and tries to believe me. "You're just having a panic attack," I say as calmly as I can, having witnessed a few of Mom's own to recognize it. I try and imitate what I'd overheard Dad say and the way he'd talk my mother down from her wild anxiety, as I work to soothe Darry, but it doesn't seem to be working.

"I just know he can't survive it," Darry says, his breathing calmer but his voice laced with tears unfallen. I wince at his words. "He's too small, he's too sensitive, he's gonna die." And he chokes out the last word.

It's my turn to be strong. I hesitate and wonder where to touch him. I grab his arms and shake them a little, get in his face and say, "I think you've forgotten the bigger parts of Soda." His hands hold my arms tight in return.

I know as his older brother, Darry can't see the Soda I see. To me, Soda's never been little, never been anything but my older, tougher, stronger brother. The one who fought all my fights before I finally had to quit telling him who was bothering me, when I decided to fight my battles on my own. And Darry needs to be reminded of all that Soda is capable of. "He's never once backed away from a fight, Darry. He thrives off it. You said yourself he's the meanest badass in any rumble." I feel Darry holding onto my words like a life raft. "He's actually stronger than you Darry, in lots of ways," and I hope my slight against him will be taken as I'd intended.

I watch Darry slowly regain his composure. His shaky breath is steadying. He's now moved to an upright position. I hand him some toilet paper to wipe the sweat and a few escaped tears from his face. He's finished with this fitful bout, but I can tell he still can't shake the ominous cloud that's claimed him. His voice is a weak whisper when he tells me, "I swear to God I won't be able to face it if something happens to him, Pony. I refuse to bury him. I won't plan no funeral again. Not for him." I look into his eyes, like mine haunted by all we've seen, and I believe him.

The only way to settle Darry at this point is to go there with him. "Alright you won't," I say firmly. "I won't either. If something happens, we'll get Two-Bit to do everything." And he seems to gnaw on that thought and finally nods his head, agreeing with that idea. And for now his violent storm's at bay.

Now Darry's apologizing, worried this sign of weakness, this attack has scarred me, and it has a little, but I don't let him know as I help him up and walk him to his bedroom. He's still unstable, probably lightheaded from all that breathing. He thanks me as I settle him into bed and I tell him no problem, but I want to tell him so much more than that. Instead I reaffirm, "Soda's okay, Darry. I feel it in my bones."

I go out on the porch for a cigarette to ease the adrenaline. I was calm for Darry cause I had to be. But now I'm left alone with too many thoughts. The frigid air feels good against the heat of my skin. But my cough starts up again from the cold I can't beat this winter, and I end up throwing my cig out into the snow. The flakes are thinner and wetter now, and I watch them under the street light, racing to become one of many across the frozen ground.

Something pulls me out from under the porch and into the night, and I let the icy flakes pelt against my face as I look up, wondering what Soda's doing now. Sometimes I'm just like Darry. I can't see the end of the tunnel, and I convince myself we'll never get him back. But every night in bed I pray a prayer that's so worn out and ragged I wonder if it can even be heard anymore. Tonight though, I wasn't lying when I told Darry I can feel it in my bones. That Soda's alive.

"Soda," I say on my whispered breath. I say it to myself. And to him. I turn to face the house as a snowflake lands just above my eye. I blink to keep out its melted water, and I slowly bring my hand up, my fingers softly rest along my left eyebrow. My brother is alive.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton

Just got back from vacation, a little rusty, trying to dive back in. What is it with me and bathrooms? I tend to have a lot of major stuff going down in there! Thanks for reading!


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